Yahya Al-Samawi

Born in Iraq in 1949, Yahya Al-Samawi has been living as a political refugee in Australia. The author of more than eight collections, he has been largely concerned in his latest works with political themes, which address, among other issues, Iraq’s predicament in the years following the Gulf War and his opposition to the regime.

My Love Humiliated Me

My love humiliated me

So did my wound that extends from the palm tree’s braids

To the people’s bread

And when the Tartars one night besieged me

I crossed the wall of the massacred homeland

Anxiety was my provision

Terror was my water

I roamed the fires of the East

The gardens of the West

With no companions

Except residues of my home’s ashes

The clay of the Euphrates and Tigris

Splattered on my clothes

I searched for my childhood

In the memory of days

In the refuse of oppressive wars

Seeking my city

Looking for my beloved among this age’s captives

Uncovering my roots

A sweet enchanting Euphrates

Suddenly I saw a palm tree on a sidewalk

I shook it

Tears flowed down over my face

And when I shook the earth’s trunk

Oh God Iraq surges in my heart

The Last Poem

I want for myself: twenty hands, A sheet of paper large as a tropical forest, A pen big as a palm-tree, A well of black ink, to write my last poem Pouring in it my anxiety, the paleness of children who exchange their school bags for beggars’ tools, their toys for shoe-shine boxes My last poem long as the night of Iraq Where I place the agonies of my homeland itched on a guillotine’s edge, And the wailing of widows and bereaved mothers. And read it from a pulpit atop a mountain Or from the electric chair waiting for my head’s arrival -Before I begin death’s slumber without nightmares- bandages cannot smother my fires rivers and rains can neither quench my thirst Nor drench my arid life Hand me the instruments of writing I don’t practice my freedom except on papers Let me die on my papers Let a poem be my tomb I will have no tomb in my homeland Give me the tools of writing to dig up my grave If not I shall begin my last sleep But do not close my eyes I want them to stay wide open like the door of our huts Like the hands of beggars Let them stay open To see what is darker: my grave or Iraq? For twenty years I searched in my home for my homeland Oh, If only I could gather the fragments of my corpse my frequent moves between internment camps and underground chambers of torture Scattered my memory throughout Iraq For twenty years lovers in my homeland exchanged their letters in their dreams And met each other only in funeral processions.